


Rainy Day

by voltairenism



Category: Football RPF, Paris Saint-Germain F.C. - Fandom
Genre: Bromance, It's really stupid but ok, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 16:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2199699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voltairenism/pseuds/voltairenism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a canceled training, four players are stuck together by a strong rain outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Day

**Author's Note:**

> It's more like just a stupid bromance  
> i have mixed feelings about regreting this thing  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> I based the plot in a Monica's Gang comic book  
> seriously
> 
> I suck at english, I did my best but any mistakes please tell me!

It was a beautiful cloudy, hot and quiet Saturday afternoon in summer Paris - beautiful afternoon for those who can stay in their air-conditioned house, napping with beautiful dreams about the doom of who cannot, but, anyway, most Parisians can stay at home, living a pretty boring life.

However, there are three players looking idly at the wrinkled face of Laurent Blanc and his tie tucked into his trousers, already holding a briefcase and opening the car door as he explains that the training was canceled because, only God knows why, David Luiz went to Portugal.

“And what that has to do with us?” the argentine Pastore asks. Maxwell said he was thinking the same thing. Blanc left without respond as soon as a thunder sounded and a lightning appeared on the horizon. They wanted it had hit Blanc.

Grumbling, they entered and sat in seats that must have been really expensive.

“It was the excuse for everyone to don’t ‘work’.”  Listening all the crabby, says the, hitherto injured, Zlatan, who is there for uncertain reasons. "Inclusive Blanc, by the way."

“Well, since we're here.”  Lucas says, taking the attention of Pastore and Maxwell, who wondered when he has arrived there, “Two by two, no goalkeeper?”

It did not rain that much in the flood. Perhaps sin take the french city or St. Peter thought it was time to the parisians finally take a bath. The training camp was the mud sludge, those who fat rich ladies put the face on to rejuvenation treatment, and Lucas tried, really tried to play, but after the demonstration of how dirt Lucas was after his return to the indoors, everyone withdrew it.

“What is your idea now?” Maxwell asks, sarcastically for sure.

“None of us can back home in this rain.” Javier completes.

All of them were shooting at Lucas with angry and bored looks that lined to the oppressive sound of the rain outside, waiting for any idea. Zlatan, at the corner of the room, was looking at him as well, and, frankly, Lucas shit himself afraid of the reason to any idea that he could give. Thank God he was all brown of mud.

“Pictionary?” Lucas suggested, because, as everyone knows, always there is Pictionary when you need Pictionary.

By surprise everyone agreed pretty quickly without discussion, except Zlatan, who was delaying a little because he didn’t want to confess that he didn’t have a lot of idea of how to play this game. Maxwell said quietly to him that will be easy easy to learn and he was supposed to keep it cool.

The original idea was Brazilians against, an, the rest, but Zlatan snorted softly at the idea.

“So yeah, the couple against me and Lucas.” said Pastore, perhaps upset with the disposal.

Zlatan and Pastore were sitting as Maxwell and Lucas were reading the paper which said what they had to draw. They lingered. Zlatan got angry and rose, really ticked off, asking sarcastically what fucking language it was written.

“English.” answered together.

Yeah, two brazilians.

Lucas and Maxwell discussed in one another's ear about what would be the meaning of that word. Zlatan was restless and Pastore was already dozing like a good argentine with his mouth open and his hand in his balls. And it wasn’t even taking that long.

“It will be that.” Maxwell agreed, already running towards the frame. Lucas yelled to Javier, who woke in a jump.

Maxwell started drawing something not quite right - all they know are that had teeth. Zlatan had created not even a shadow of idea about what the hell was that as Javier had already shouted that it was a carrot - and hit the answer.

“Why did you guys took so long to understand this?” Pastore said, taking the paper with the name. He put his face on the palm of  his other hand. “Guys, it is written parrot, not carrot”.

Fuck it.

Javier and Zlatan took the card and started drawing in an instant. The draw of Zlatan was a piece of art, with shadow and light, and Javier was unmatched scrawl. It isn’t known whether Maxwell wasn’t with a good head today (or ever), or if Lucas had above average IQ to understand that shit, but after a few attempts Lucas said it was a mailbox. Maxwell was still attempting if it was a house or a greenhouse, whatever.

Zlatan was very angry with the negative lead, and began to yell to Max, saying that Zlatan never loses because Zlatan is always a winner, but the pissed off expression that was in Max’s face did not only silence Zlatan – he apologized too. Pastore and Lucas did not want to try to understand the situation. 

Quickly Max, decided to change the score, got a card in the middle of the whole deck. Lucas saw the word and laughed, saing Zlatan will never hit it. Max didn’t have a lot of doubt about it, but was optimistic.

Maxwell made a lot of stripes and a person with hands up. Zlatan did not hesitate.

“Zlatan Ibrahimovic.” Zlatan shouted. “Zlatan celebrating a goal”, continued with the lack of response from the Brazilian. “Zlatan…”

Lucas was laughing so hard that he couldn’t even draw. Javier was not very different. Lucas took a breath and drew a web and a toothpick man, as Pastore shouts and hits "Spider-Man".

Three to zero, and Max rattled Zlatan, telling him to pay attention. Zlatan said he was trying. Pastore whispered to Lucas that would have won a hand in his face if he said something like that to Ibra.

Pastore took the card and showed it to Zlatan, who has raced to draw. Max had no idea and his face was visible despair. Zlatan continued to ask him to attempt, but Maxwell just nodded and raised his shoulders. Lucas was also taking some time, but attempting thing by thing he hits "spade". Maxwell shoved his face into a pillow. Ibra ran to him comfort him.

It continued without even a point to the team Ibraxwell, until the score was 7-0 and Zlatan would draw. Zlatan, already quitting this game, took a card and his optimism returned: he was sure Maxwell was going to hit this one. Pastore, laughing about the situation, went to the board unhurried while Zlatan was already drawing, hopping happily. Maxwell attempted toothpaste, bread and, finally attempted soap. Zlatan jumped with his arms up.

“Did I hit?” Maxwell asked cheerfully. Zlatan confirmed.

Maxwell stood up and jumped on the Swedish, who revolved with Max in his arms. Max came down and they embraced, falling on the couch, with Zlatan holding Max's face between his hands and praising his intelligence, his wit, his unibrow...

Lucas and Pastore kept the game where they found it as fast as possible to get out of the situation. Having kept, they were sneaking out, watching Zlatan hugging Max, who was already on his lap.

"Am I too late for the workout?" Matuidi appears on the scene, all wet, and then watered Pastore and Lucas when bumped them, taking screams from a mad and now wet argentine and nothing from a Brazilian who was already dirty anyway, but that mess was nether diverting the attention that Zlatan and Max had for each other.


End file.
